


Say It Softer Now

by Lunafeather



Series: Say It Softer Now [1]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunafeather/pseuds/Lunafeather
Summary: Collection of Fills from Phrase/Sentence based writing prompt lists. Updated as new prompts are filled.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Series: Say It Softer Now [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726285
Comments: 10
Kudos: 87





	1. I Know You and This Isn't You

“I know you, and this isn’t you.”

“Oh, you know me now, huh?”

“Yeah.” She freezes, realizes what she’s said and stares at him, the gears in her head grinding. And then something clicks. “Yeah, I do know you.”

He snorts, shakes his head and turns away. Beth grabs his sleeve and spins him back, her fingers clenching forcefully against his arm, and then she’s in his space, chest to chest, her mouth a thin sharp line when she leans up into his face. She watches as fury is smothered into blankness, and her frustration only mounts. He looks down his nose at her through thick lashes, and she does know him, she _does_ , because when his nostrils flare she knows he’s fighting not to rise to her bait. She knows that he is carefully keeping himself in check by the way his arm tenses beneath her grip, held taut like a bow, the way he looms very slightly over her despite her heels giving her some leverage.

She doesn’t back down, doesn’t flinch, holds his gaze while he glares down at her.

And she thinks that maybe she sees his eyes dart down to her mouth, and it’s too fast, she must have imagined it – but then he’s kissing her, _hard_ , a brutal crash of his mouth against hers and she’s so startled that her mouth opens on a gasp and then his tongue is in her mouth, deepening it. She is knocked off balance by it, stumbling back, but his hands are there to catch her, rough on her hips and then her ass, yanking her against him as he walks her backwards until she’s pressed against the nearest wall. She manages to get the nails of one hand scraping against his scalp, is rewarded with a groan – her other hand scrabbles against his shoulder in a futile attempt at regaining some control.

He shoves a thigh between hers at the same moment that she bites down on his lower lip. They break apart, panting, and Rio presses his forehead against hers while they catch their breath. Her eyes flutter closed even as her hand strokes gently through the hair at the nape of his neck, urging him closer, closer still, and a bizarre image unfurls in her mind of crawling into him and just letting go – of this tension, of this fight, of this exhaustion. His hand at her lower back presses her more firmly to him, and maybe he’s having the same thought because the rigidity in his body seems to melt away.

“We can’t keep doing this.” Her voice is hoarse and small, just for him in this small space they share.

Rio shrugs, so slightly, and then leans back to look at her. He waits until she opens her eyes to say, “Then let’s stop.”

Panic surges through her and her mouth falls open to argue – and then his fingers are at her temple, stroking down her face in that familiar gesture that haunts her dreams. But he doesn’t let his hand fall away, like usual. Instead he gently cups her jaw, fingers spread against her throat, thumb tracing her kiss bruised lower lip. He watches the movement, watches as she licks at the skin there, then his gaze flicks up to hers and she understands.


	2. I Need a Place to Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnisntevendead Said: Brio + 11, 39, 76

His phone pings, that familiar tone he set to her number only startling him awake from a light doze. He doesn’t move for a moment, breathing sharply through his nose, and then he rakes his palm roughly over his face and scratches at his beard. When he rolls on to his side and lifts his phone, his eyebrow arches at the message staring back at him.

_Can you meet me?_

1:47AM hovers in the top corner of his phone’s screen. It’s not like her to be up this late let alone messaging him, and he pauses before he responds, flicking over the possible reasons she could have for wanting to meet. Their partnership is tentatively back on, though decidedly secret, which adds that much more mystery to her request.

He briefly mulls over the idea that it might be a booty call, then quickly discards the thought.

He’s not quite back in that good of graces.

Yet.

His curiosity gets the better of him, and – if he’s being honest – his concern. Though she remains tight lipped and infuriatingly vague about her home life, he gets the feeling that it’s not all sunshine and roses (and how could it be, if car man was up and swiping their kids out of her reach?). This thought spurs him up and onto his feet, tugging on a pair of jeans and shooting her a clipped response.

_15._

She doesn’t reply, but he knows she’ll be there. When he rolls up to the park in his black Cadillac, her mama van is already parked at the curb. He tugs up on the zipper of his hoodie while his eyes canvas the playground, tracing over familiar twisted metal shapes, searching – there, nestled into a swing, swaying softly in the darkness. He watches her a moment, drinking her in; her copper curls are smothered by a thick black beanie much like his own, her shoulders curled inwards against the Autumn chill. She kicks idly with one boot, but otherwise seems still.

Her head doesn’t lift until he’s ten feet away, and when it does it strikes him somewhere deep, somewhere he struggles every day to smother. Tear tracks glide down her cheeks, the skin rosy with cold and shimmering in the street light that barely reaches them. She sniffles, but otherwise just watches him warily. When the silence stretches on, he shoves his hands into his pockets and leans against the swing set support bar, eyes fluttering closed, sleep hanging like a hazy weight on the edge of his vision.

They sit like that, in silence, and somehow it’s comfortable and calm. Even standing this far from her he feels that undeniable tug, that thread that binds them together, dragging him towards her, always. It’s becoming harder and harder to stay away from her, to not gravitate into her space and let their energies collide and meld into one. He had thought it was difficult not to touch her constantly after their encounter in that bar bathroom, but now? After tasting her in every sense of the word, after drinking directly from the source, swallowing her moans and her whimpers, and knowing what every delicious curve felt like, heavy in his palms…

The urge to have his hands on her, always, buzzes like lightning beneath his skin, making him jittery and tense and agitated. She often takes it the wrong way, believes its something she did – and it is, _it is_ , but not in the way she thinks.

Even now, he wants to crowd into her space and nudge her chin up with his thumb, meet those blue, blue eyes and draw out every thought and every desire, wants to catch each one and bottle it up and hide it in that place he keeps shoving way down.

She sniffles again, and he opens his eyes to find her staring. The openness of her expression, the vulnerability, knocks him in the chest like a horse kick. He’s frozen, afraid to move and scare her off, his face a calm mask of neutrality.

“He found some of my notes.”

The corners of his mouth curl downwards, and his brows furrow just so, but he doesn’t speak. He knows her well enough to know that her words will come in time.

“He got suspicious, and we fought – it woke the kids, they were crying. They didn’t… they didn’t want me to…” She huffs, finally breaking their eye contact. She lifts a hand to rub at her nose and tilts her head back until her face welcomes the stars. When she meets his gaze again, her expression is carefully blank, though even from his position he can see the tears sparkling at the corners of her eyes.

“I need a place to stay.”

He doesn’t ask why she doesn’t call her friend or her sister, doesn’t really want to. It’s a rare gift for her to let him see this far inside her, and despite the fact that it sometimes feels like there’s a gulf they’ll never be able to cross between them, he can’t deny how warm it makes him feel.

He can do this for her.

He jerks his head in the direction of his car and starts off. He doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to know she’s following – he feels that thread taught and thrumming between them and keeps walking.


	3. You Look Awful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnisntevendead Said: Brio + 11, 39, 76

Everything happened so fast. They had been on the couch, talking then touching then kissing, because when have they ever been able to keep their hands off one another? And then Dean was there, yelling, red faced and spitting, waving a gun. Rio hadn’t jumped up or shown any emotion, rising calmly and standing between Dean and Beth. And then she had been on her feet, too, and everything was tense and loaded and she didn’t think he would do it, didn’t think he had it in him – she had seen the hard line of Rio’s shoulders, ready to strike, voice laced with the threat of danger and she isn’t sure who said what that made Dean raise the gun and pull the trigger, but she is sure that her instincts took over and she shoved Rio sideways, slotting her body into the bullet’s path.

Everything thereafter was a blur – screaming, crying, hands everywhere on her body then nowhere and she was alone and then not, eyes snapping open to meet Rio’s as he gingerly shifted her and then pain, unbearable and agonizing, and it felt like her side had split open and her guts had spilled out, and maybe they had, maybe they had.

Her last snapshot of consciousness is the look on Rio’s face – guarded, cool, murmuring softly to her, but the pain at the corners of his eyes stands out the most, the tiny pull of a frown at the edge of his mouth.

She wakes to sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains of her bedroom, bathing her bed in warmth. She’s on her back, laid carefully out and straight as board. When she tries to sit up, pain ricochets from her right side across her belly and her chest and her hip, and she yells, the sound hollow and tinny.

“Beth!” Annie surges out of the bathroom, her hands insistent on Beth’s shoulders, pushing her back down. “Jesus, I turn away for like 10 seconds and you’re trying to escape.” Her little sister tries to inject some levity in her tone, but they both know it’s a thin facade.

Beth trembles with the pain throbbing in her side, nausea washing through her. Annie keeps a hand pressed to Beth’s shoulder, the other gently brushing Beth’s sweat soaked hair from her face. She sits on the edge of the bed, and when Beth can finally manage to open her eyes, she is struck by the worry and panic hanging heavy on Annie’s face.

“Don’t move, okay? It could rip open the sutures.”

Beth nods, and they sit quietly. Then, “What happened?”

Annie’s brows pucker together. “You don’t remember?” At Beth’s small head shake, Annie sighs, glancing distractedly down to Beth’s lap. “Dean shot you.”

Beth doesn’t mean to, but the words startle her into another attempt to sit up and another shove back down to the bed and an annoyed growl from Annie. “He _what?_ ” she pants, swallowing thickly against another wave of pain and nausea.

“Well, I think he meant to shoot Rio, but…”

Beth’s eyes pop open and she moves again, panicked. “Rio! Where is he? Is he okay?”

Annie is prepared this time, holding her down with a palm on her shoulder, and watches her curiously, almost surprised. Her mouth falls open to answer–

“I’m fine.”

Both women turn to see Rio leaning against the door frame, hands buried in his pockets. His expression is closed, guarded, but rough. He and Beth lock eyes and she feels her breath leave her in a whoosh at the intensity in those black depths.

Annie looks between them, put out at being so obviously forgotten. “Yeah, he’s just fine,” she retorts. She watches them for a long moment, and when no one says anything else, she helpfully provides, “he actually refused to leave your side. Dug the bullet out himself and sewed you up. Held your hand all night. It was, like, kind of sickeningly sweet.”

Two pairs of eyes flick to her, and she knows a dismissal when it’s staring right at her. She throws her hands up and scoffs. “I’m going.” If she notices that they immediately go back to gazing at one another, she doesn’t mention it.

With Annie gone, Beth takes her time in absorbing the man before her. His face is cracked and red, dried blood crusting over a wound or two – eerily reminiscent of the last time the two of them and her husband had found themselves in a room with a gun. Blood stains his dark blue t shirt – his blood? Her blood? Dean’s? Maybe all three? There’s marks on his tanned arms, marring the smoothness there. Dark circles cushion his eyes, his skin is pallid – but god, she still finds him so devastatingly beautiful.

“You look awful,” she says, and smiles when he smirks.

“Yeah, I was about to say the same thing about you.”

He’s lying, and not even hiding it. His smirk briefly swells into a grin – a warm, affectionate, dare-she-say loving grin – and then it deflates and ebbs away, dragging her own smile with it. Suddenly he is oh so very serious, and her heart drops. They stay like that, the tension so thick that she’s afraid it may smother her and something painful and thick is rising like a tidal wave up from her toes through her belly through her chest and then there are tears in her eyes and she’s not entirely sure why.

That’s what breaks the moment, her tears. He swallows audibly, and she would swear that his breathing hitched, and then he’s ambling over and sitting next to her, hands still shoved in his pockets like he’s afraid if he has them free he’ll shake her.

He sighs, looking up at the ceiling. “You know, you done some real dumb shit during the time I’ve known you, but this is a new record.”

She shrugs. “I think that depends on who you ask.”

The memories are jagged and blurred, swirling together in a colorful mess in her mind, but she knows, without a doubt, that she saved Rio’s life. And even though barely moving any part of her body feels like someone is stabbing her in the gut with a dull knife, she doesn’t regret it. She’ll never regret it.

And she says as much.

Rio just shakes his head, but when his eyes meet hers, his expression is open and vulnerable. It takes her breath away all over again.

“Elizabeth.”

How can he fit so much into just her name? It comes out as a sigh, a plea, a prayer. She can hear the annoyance, the pride, the fear in it, the judgement and the forgiveness. He speaks her name like a caress, and she feels it as a ghost of his fingers trailing down her face, pushing her hair back.

She wants to ask about what happened after she jumped in front of him, about Dean, about where they go from here, but she knows it’s not the time. This gentleness, this softness, is too fragile and for once she allows herself the selfishness of indulging in it without guilt. She just wants to be close to him, to soak up his realness, his vitality. She wants to revel in this thing between them, and the fact that they somehow managed to cheat their way out of another bad situation.

“Rio.” It’s a murmur, and it’s laced with just as much emotion as her name on his lips.

He gets it, though, he always gets it, get her, reads her like an open book, and she’s glad for it now. He stands and sheds his sneakers, then climbs onto the bed next to her, stretching languidly along her side on his back, careful not to jostle her too much. Her eyes flutter closed, suddenly exhausted. When his fingers intertwine with hers, she smiles, warm and content. She is halfway submerged in sleep when she feels the brush of his lips against her forehead, and she knows better than to hope it’s real and not her imagination – but she lets herself believe it anyway.


End file.
